'M 






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. | 




UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




PO.E M S 



POEMS 



BY 



JULIA D O U GL A S FAY. 



The best in this kind are but shadows, 

And the worst no worse, if imagination amend them. — 

Shakespeore. 



^ 




ALBANY, N. Y. : 

JOEL MUNSELL. 

1878. 



DEDICATED 



MY MOTHER 



POEMS. 



GENERAL JACQUEMINOT. 

How earnest thou with thy martial title proud, 
Oh petted favorite, General Jacqueminot ? 

Thou knight most famous 'mid the flower crowd 
To whom fair women bend in homage low. 

Wert thou some soldier brave, whose chivalry 
Rescued the Roses' queen from danger dread ; 

Who with her love did metamorphose thee. 
Wreathing her beauty's glow around thy head ? 

Making thee ruler of her realm and love. 
Oh hapless queen believing thou wert true ; 

N'er dreaming thou would'st from her garden rove 
Flaunting thy colors to the broad world's view ? 

I have misgivings of thy constancy. 

Thou art proud and fickle General Jacqueminot 
Thou hast left thy loving queen beyond the sea. 

Within her lonely bowers she pales with woe. 



8 POEMS. 

Thou lovest luxuries of draperied room, 
In costly vase thy sumptuous colors shine; 

And subtly sweet thy passionate perfume 
Oft mingles with the dance and spicy wine. 

Envied art thou, for this thy life is blest, 
Crowning the raven hair and snowy breast ; 

By lily fingers treasured and caressed. 

To haughty lips thy languid petals pressed. 

And she with eyes like stars, and golden tress 

Who bore thee with her when the dance was done. 

Folded thee to her breast in tenderness, 
Whispering love words for thine ear alone. 

I sent thee to her with a pleading word, 

Did'st say my heart was breaking with its woe ? 

Tell me, I pray thee, what thine ears have heard. 
And I will bless thee. General Jacqueminot. 

*"' I kissed her mouth, I breathed my sweetest sigh, 

Your message to her ear I did impart, 
'Tis true, she whispered as she threw me by. 

Without one drop of water for my heart. 

'* Ah mortal must thou know, 'Twill grieve thee sore. 

Still surely thou hast sadly libelled me ; 
' One Jacque ! How mean, he might have sent me more,' 

This was the whisper that she breathed of thee !" 



POEMS. 



THE CUMBERLAND. 

Chaunt ye waves in monotone, 
Ye the mighty, ye the hoary ! 

Sound the requiem one by one, 
Surging upward tell the story, 

Story saddest and most grand. 
Of the Cumberland. 

Once she rode you proudly. 
Feared, gazed on with wonder, 

Held her own right loudly 

With her deep-mouthed thunder. 

Manned by the bravest band 
Was the Cumberland ! 

Beat the pondrous shot and shell 

On her iron armor. 
Those stout sides they bore it well, 

Dulled the power to harm her. 
With iron heart and iron hand. 

Stood the Cumberland ! 

Rent and bleeding ! must defeat 

Cover all her daring? 
Grandly scarred in her defeat 

Must she yield despairing? 

Never " ! cry that bravest band 

Of the Cumberland ! 



u 



lO POEMS. 

'* If retreat then death, I cry, " 
Spake the voice commanding, 

*' Comrades, better thus to die, 
Than our vessel branding 

With this shame — ' these are the band 
Of conquered Cumberland ! * *' 

" If retreat then death we crave. 
And we'll meet it in the deep" — 

Answered they. The silent wave 
Covered them to sleep. 

Mournfully did take the band 
Of the Cumberland ! 

Patriots sleep ! thy De Profundis 
Land and sea shall murmur ever. 

Rampant flags shall honor this 
Dying brave endeavor. 

Thus we leave them, bravest band 
Of the Cumberland ! 



POEMS. I I 



PROVIDENCE. 



A tender poet in his verse hath told 
The separate destinies that did enfold 
Three roses from a florist's window sold. 

A lover gave the perfect flower to her 
Who found in him a faithful worshiper. 

The second rose, e'en as its sister fair, 
Drooped blushing in an erring woman's hair. 

The third a tearful mother, sore bereft. 
Within the hand of her dead darling left. 

Thy pardon, poet, if another sees 
Still farther on thy flowers' destinies 

And weaves from out thy thought a wider sense 
Of the all-watchful eyes of Providence ! 

Pillowed on bosom fair the flower laid. 

Still gold will last while roses sweet must fade. 
And from its snowy throne of love and pride 

The rose was flung, and on the highway died. 

The Magdalene at midnight stood alone, 

The songs, the jests the revellers had gone. 

One pallid rose she holds and kneeling there 

In tearful whisper breathes to heaven this prayer 



12 POEMS. 

" Upon the petals pure of this sweet rose 
I press my sinful lips ; its leaves unclose 

Past visions to my heart of Heaven and God. 
Oh save me, Lord, tho' I in guilt have trod ! " 

The mother dreams and in the dream appears 
Her little child and wipes away the tears ; 

Within her hand she holds the fading rose 
And whispers softer than soft falling snows, 

' Take thou thy rose again and dry thine eyes, 
Bright flowers bloom everywhere in Paradise. 
And I, sweet mother, wait in joy for thee 
To come where roses bloom eternally !" 



PALMER'S "LITTLE PEASANT." 

Com'st thou from valley of some stranger land 
Thou little maiden, who, with timid feet 

And simply clad, so modestly dost stand 

In grand salon, where Art and Beauty meet ? 

An empty nest, a wandering wood-bird's nest 
Thou hold'st ; all its nestlings flown away ! 

What pity stirreth in thy childish breast, 

What plaintive story of their flight would'st say ? 



POEMS. 



13 



Around thee, crimson draperies flaming fold : 

They burn and glow beneath the lights which shine, 

Lighting the nooks whose shadowy niches hold 
White forms, by right of loveliness divine ! 

Lo, Aphrodite ! As when from swelling stream, 
She perfect rose to be of Beauty — queen ; 

Stands, pure creation of a sculptor's dream. 
Glowing with rosy light from curtain's sheen. 

Near by CEnone, loveless lot is hers. 
Wandering bereft of happiness and rest ! 

And lissome Leda winneth worshipers, 

Languidly leaning o'er her white swan's breast ! 

While myriad forms the light and color show ; 

Names borne to us from out the classic past ; 
Whose chiseled forms shall thro' the future glow ; 

Still, Little Peasant, turn we to thee, last ! 

Thou teachest us the simple truth of Art, 

He who with noble thought and earnest deed 

Studies the hidden depths of Nature's heart. 
Finds in her lowliest way, the loftiest meed. 

And childhood pure, carved by a master hand, 
Shall, mid creations of more sensuous mould. 

Triumphant in its simple beauty stand. 

Till hearts are still, and ages have grown old. 



14 POEMS. 

THE SONG OF CCEUR DE LION. 

It is a well-known song sung through the streets along, 
Or where the students throng, in cities olden ; 
Or on the waters bright, as the boat glides so light 
While o'er the Rhine at night, the moon hangs golden. 

As trumpet sweet and clear loud ringeth far and near. 
Thrilling the listening ear, martial, sonorous ; 
Breathing of battle pride, stamping of steeds as ride 
Knights who the foe defied, so rings the chorus ! 

Richard of England was with his scattered band 
Home bound through Austria's land captured by night. 
Then to dark dungeons led were the brave hearts that bled 
'Neath Orient skies so red, in holy fight ! 

When to old England word came of her prisoned lord, 
Sadly each heart was stirred, great ransom bidden ; 
Captured by robber crew, no one could tell or knew 
What castle dungeon grue held the king hidden. 

Up rose the minstrel knight Blondel, the singer bright. 
Who thro' the Crusade fight bravely had stood 
With Richard when he won the siege of Ascalon, 
Then loudly triumph sung, in Song's sweet flood ! 

With harp across his breast forth speeds he on his quest ; 
North, South, and East and West seeks he his king. 
While Richard's treasured song sings he the vales along. 
And as its echoes throng the hills they ring ! 



POEMS. If 

Onward until the Rhine laden with wealth of vine. 
Bathed in the warm sunshine floweth in beauty. 
From moss-hung rocks and brown, proud castle towers frown 
Monarchs of Nature's crown yielding her duty. 

When Trifel's height he won one eve at set of sun, 
Sadly his eye upon its beauty fell ; 
Still with one effort more, tender the song did pour 
Forth from his lips and soar clear as a bell ! 

List ! Hark ! What was that sound ? How his sad heart 

doth bound. 
Has he his king then found ? Oh hope so bright ! 
Down from the tower high, comes the same battle cry, 
And the same melody answers the knight ! 

Wild bounds he to the walls —wildly the warden calls — 
" Open to me your halls, release I bring — 
Read — from your Emperor — " past them a massive door 
Unbarnng, kneels before Richard, his king ! 

" Richard, O king of mine, let my hands touch but thine, 
Happy the tears that shine these cheeks adown ! 
Unscathed I find thee late, through a song's happy fate. 
Haste, England's people wait thy brow to crown ! " 

Down from the castled height in the grey morning light, 
Forth journey king and knight on to the sea. 
Soon then with sails outspread and blithe winds overhead 
Sailed Richard, mourned as dead, to his countrie ! 



1 6 POEMS. 

Still yet throughout the land where Trifel's ruins stand 
And the Rhine's silver band windeth along, 
Where Blondel sought his king, war-like the voices ring, 
As loud the students sing — King Richard-'s song. 



'A WINGED SORROW." 

E. D. PALMER, SCULPTOR. 

Not with glad wings that rise 
Outstretching toward the skies 
This winged angel flies. 

Her low wings seem to brood 
In stern, relentless mood 

And 'neath her ebon hood — 

From pained brows the eyes 
Shadow forth mysteries 
Of human miseries. 

Her symbol doth she wear 
A solitary tear 

She knoweth all must bear ! 

Her piteous mouth would pray 

That she might cease her sway 

And wipe the tear away. 



POEMS. 17 

Thus doth she ever bend 
To us less foe than friend 

And when shall come the end 

The shade will disappear 
The pall, the woe, the tear, 

New garments shall she wear. 

An angel crowned elate ! 
For sorrow's earthly fate 

Ceaseth at Heaven's gate ! 



ST. AGNES' EVE. 



Twelve of the clock and the bitter wind 
Sobs wildly, wierdly over the moor. 
And the snow falls down as a robe to bind 
The cold brown breast of earth now poor ; 
To cover its heart and to make it light. 
To keep it pure as the One who died 
Many cycles ago this night ! 

I sob in my garret, the wind replies. 
The gentle snow to my face it clings, 
But the world is dumb unto my cries. 
And back to my ears my sighs it flings, 
And fiends of anger and bitter sin 
Open the door and enter in 

My soul in its woe to win. 
3 



1 8 POEMS. 

O that I were pure as Saint Agnes of old 

And my love above the earth ; 

That Jesu spouse in the bright untold 

So holy, so full of worth ! 

A king to worship, and not a clod 

A trust afar in the Eden of God 

Where the steps of the sad ne'er trod ! 

The pure white light of the dawn cannot pour 
Through my soul so dark with sin ; 
For Pride will arise and bar the door 
And let not the sweet light in ; 
For my heart is bitter and hard and cold, 
Regret and Remorse, like sentinels bold, 
Its curtains together hold. 

Far better to die as Saint Agnes suffered of old. 
So pure that the flames could not harm, 
Than to sit as I do this eve in the cold 
With a young life's broken charm. 
Dear Saint from thy heaven look down on me. 
Lift me above this misery ; 

That I conquer and pardoned be ! 



POEMS. 19 

FRANCE 1871. 

O France, brave France thou standest pale and bleeding. 
Thy lilies droop blood-sprinkled from thy battle-mailed 

hands, 
Thy children cling unto thy garments pleading 
And look to thee for freedom from their bands ! 

Beneath thy feet lie crown and sceptre broken, 

Th' imperial seal effaced from thy raiment evermore. 

The grandest word the world has ever spoken 

Thy lips have uttered clear o'er cannon's roar. 

Oh thy sad eyes shall through the war-cloud see 

A star bright through the thund'rous rain of battle shine, 

That star, the glorious star of Liberty — 

Shall yet, O France, be thine. 

And is great Caesar dead ? what then, not so 
The heroic souls of France the brave, the free. 
Her legions live, the same that snow 
Of Moscow suffered, gained Lodi, 
Marengo, Austerlitz and all that won 
The first great empire for Napoleon. 

Shall these not live again in this great crv 

For Liberty, not empire or a king ? 

A free Republic shouteth to the sky. 

Will not her children rally strong and cling 

Unto her ? Yes ; where Notre Dame's gray towers 



20 POEMS. 

Rear their great shadows dim, beside the Seine, 

O'er mounts, and southern bowers, 

From sea coast, and from plain ; 

Shall pierce that call for Liberty, * 

And France shall all her children see 

United stand, a Nation free ! 



FATALISM. 

Now I sit with folded hands 
Hopes at rest beside life's river. 

Clutching not its shining sands 
Only waiting 'till the giver 

Of my fate shall stir the wave. 
And I see my destiny 

Surging from the hand that gave. 

If to me the share be given 

Pleasure's gleaming silver crest. 

Or love's passion flower crimson 
Flood with burning glow my breast. 

Thrilling all my veins elate, 
I will trust, for if it must 

Lo 'twill come though it be late. 

Or if cold my life shall chill. 

And the mountain weights of woe 
Freeze my heart and cynic will. 



POEMS. 21 

Crust it o'er with drifts of snow. 
What helpeth it to fret and moan : 

For if it be fatality 
I can't gainsay, but tread it on. 

If when I die no recompense 

Seems to me to bless my lot, 
If naught be of remembrance 

But wishes over what was not. 
Whatever was was doomed to be, 

And so I die with scarce a sigh 
My fate is done, all I can see. 



REGRETS. 



I send you camelias white and red 
To wear to-night in your hair. • 
The lilies and roses of old are dead, 

Their fragrance scattered — ^ where ? 

We will meet to-night in the gay saloon 
'Mid music and glitter of gold. 
Not 'neath the light of a tremulous moon 
As we met in days of old ! 

Flowers there'll be and perfume of musk. 
Quivering music, all in tune. 
My heart is not, for I think of the dusk 
Of those summer eves in June. 



22 POEMS. 

There was no music of brazen band 
But the nightingale's chant in the tree, 
Not hot house flowers, you held in your hand. 
Wild roses you gave to me. 

Your dress was white and your pure young face 
With its violet-eyes looked up to mine. 
As you sat half hidden in my embrace 
And played with a jasmine vine 

That trailed its tendrils over your arms ^ 

With its delicate pink-tinged, odorous flowers. 
While the moon looked down with her magic charm 
In those beautiful eves of ours ! 

That was for life worth living and it was then. 
Pure thoughts were spoken and true ; 
We were ourselves as all women and men 
Should be — how is it with you ? 

To laugh and to sigh, to jest and to seem 
Appears to me, as the knell 
Of that bright faith cherished in early dream 
That only love was well ! 

But then you women make your fate 
Not with your hearts, but let 
Your ambition choose you a mate 
And teach your heart to forget. 



POEMS, 



23 



You teach it, but does it learn? I think not quite, 
But comes to you in its shroud 
Bringing dead roses at hush of night. 
And tearing away the cloud 

Of dross and new things, it leads you back 
To the flowers of that olden day, 
To yourself you say as you thus retrack, 
" Oh that was the better way." 

Till the morning comes and you see milord, 
Your horses and jewels and all things rare, 
Then you say to your heart the cruel word, 
" It is better as things are." 

N'importe, keep these for the poor heart's sake, 
Things change, the flowers are cold you see. 
So are you when your heart is not awake, 
And perhaps I too shall be ! 



UNDINE. 



Far down in the purple depths of the sea. 

In its grottoes where sweet minstrelsy 

Hovers the path of our ocean queen. 

As she sports with her nymphs in their robes of green 

With sea weed twining her limbs so fair. 

And the coral wreathing her golden hair — 

'Twas there I dwelt, oh the joy I've felt — 



24 POEMS. 

When gazing upward through lucent waves, 
I thought, my Ocean, woe comes not here — 
For I caught the shadow of human graves 
That made your earth seem cold and drear ! 

O could you but peer at our sea queen's throne. 

And bow with the mermen, as one by one 

They kneel at her feet, ah then I know 

You would back to earth and say — " below 

Is Beauty and there the chalice 

Of joy is filled in the sea queen's palace, 

There the rose hued shells with their murmur tell 

This is the home where the beautiful dwell ; 

And its halls are lighted, when comes the night. 

With diamonds and glistening stalactite." 

When Orion's belt is the brightest seen. 
When Diane moves her stateliest mien, 
Though bending lowly as once before, 
Endymion kissing, then every star 
Bestuds the wave and our queen they lave. 
Bathing her bosom and veil of green 
With jewels far brighter than earth has seen, 
And gleam mid her hair till the trembling pearl 
Grows pale and dies in a golden curl ! 

So free in those ocean halls I dwelt. 

My bosom light and I never felt 

The passion love, for our Triton's daughters 

Inhale but the cool essence of the waters. 



POEMS. 25 

Alas that I should have cause for sigh, 
That I left those halls and that pearly portal, 
For this sadness a heart, and the love of mortal, 
For the love of one v^^hose heart, I ween, 
Never loved truly discrowned Undine ! 

My sea blown blossoms black, and trailing 
Woe like my arms, my fate bewailing. 
Lost the pure, cool nature the ocean gave. 
The passionless life beneath the wave ; 
And I with my moan sit here alone. 
Alone by the shore of my beautiful sea 
Where all my loved innocent sisters be. 
Pleading and praying, implore a fate 
To open once more the beautiful gate ! 

I am sad, Father Triton, my poor feet they burn 
With the dust of this earth, and so bitterly yearn. 
But to die in some coral cave under thy wave 
With the cool waving sea-moss bent over my grave. 
And this heart of a woman, that renders me human, 
I hurl from my bosom far back to the earth ! 
It brought tears to my life and made it a dearth. 
What need of a heart, it brings sorrow and pain. 
And I plead for my passionless nature again ! 

How long must I wait .? I'm in sight of my home. 
Am I doomed forever this hot earth to roam ? 
Watching the ripples that break with each eddy. 
Peering the waves to find some hand ready. 



26 POEMS. 

Like a pleiad lost, or a soul sin-tossed! 

Ah come to me, come, let me leap from the shore, 

Give me but a sea grave, I'll not ask any more ! 

Oh joy ! There, the chariots, I see through the foam, 

I hear the sweet voices, I go to my home ! 



THE RETURN FROM THE MASQUE BALL. 

From a picture — A young girl attired in a masquerade costume is seen 
prostrate beside the dead body of her mother. 

Bright flash the lights in a grand saloon, 

Through bannered rooms there falls no shade. 

Clear, rippling music all in tune 
Lends charms to the masquerade. 

Sweeter and wilder flows the strains. 

Closer the waltzing figures press. 
The blood flows fast in warm young veins. 

Bright ringlets cling in soft caress. 

'-'• To the dance, my darling ! why tremblest thou. 
Why does thy breath sob thick and fast ? 

Oh come ! While the waltz strain soundeth now 
Ere its merry measure's past." 



POEMS. 27 

" Oh no, I cannot, dare not, must not linger ! 

I must away, my mother calleth me, 
Her face so sternly sad, her warning finger 

At every step confronting us I see !" 

" Nay, silly one, thy mother is at rest. 

Nor dreams her darling clinging here to me. 

With bright head folded to my loving breast, 
Ah well for us thy mother may not see. 

" Away, arouse, put off that look of sorrow, 

Shut from thy sight this causeless, foolish dream, 

On with the dance, too soon will come the morrow, 
See how the maskers fly, the lustres stream !" 

" Oh Mother dear, in mercy do not hold 
My hand so fast, I come to thee, I come ! 

Thine eyes seem strange, thy fingers are so cold, 
I will obey thee, I am coming home !" 

She wresteth from her lover's fond caress. 

And flieth home with trembling, hurrying feet ; 

Trailing the mid-night street her gorgeous dress. 
Sad fears within her heart those eyes to meet ! 

Her masker's robes they rustle on the stair. 
She dreads to face the presence of her dream ; 

The bright pearls flash on bosom and on hair, 
Her face so wild, seems paler as they gleam. 



28 POEMS. 

" Does Mother sleep ?" she asks in whisper low, 

'' She sleeps and rests," the answerer bows her head. 

She creepeth near the couch and sees the snow 
That droppeth on the faces of the dead. 

She falleth down and moaneth in her pain, 
"Oh mother dear forgive my sinful flight ; 

Come back and speak to me but once again. 
Lay your forgiveness on my heart this night. 

" Still silent, then I come!" sounds thro' the air; 

The watchers starting bend toward the child, 
Close clasped her mother's hand, she dieth there, 

Her eyes still pleading toward that face so mild ! 

They count their beads and murmur with great dole, 
'' Ah much she sinned, and may not enter Heaven, 

Hers was the hopeless cry of a lost soul. 

Too late the pleading prayer to be forgiven." 

Forgiven ! can a mother's heart ere harden 

Toward the pleadings of an erring child ? 
Heaven heard, perchance, the suppliant's praver for pardon, 

And stilled the pulses of a heart too wild. 



POEMS. 29 



TO BAYARD TAYLOR, 

Minister to Germany, 

We send thee forth a Bayard from the west, 
^' Sans peur et sans reproche " as he of old, 
Tho' true thou bearest armor not, nor crest 
Nor flaming banner valiantly enrolled. 
Yet bravely goest thou, though not in fight 
Thou shalt win honors in a peaceful field, 
Thou bearest a weapon keen as diamond bright 
Whose magic power thou knowest well to wield. 

'Neath orient skies, and where the midnight sun 
In awful splendor wears his fiery crown. 
Through desert sands great victories hast thou won, 
And from long waiting forms struck silence down. 
Giving them other speech in newer lands. 
Lo Faust appears; pale Gretchen's form we see. 
Across the sea she waves her trembling hands 
And tells the story of her misery. 

These hast thou won and given thy land of birth 
Toiling with fervent heart, and earnest pen. 
And in thy wanderings o'er the lands of earth. 
Hast brought her nearer to her fellow men. 



30 



POEMS. 

Go forth again in thy proud country's name. 

Go to the land of Schiller's song divine ; 

Where Goethe lives immortal in his fame ; 

To that imperial land where flours the Rhine. 

Thou shalt have w^elcome warm from folk and throne, 

And while thou bidest by the Northern sea, 

Know that she holds thee as her very own. 

And that thy country's stars watch over thee ; 

Till thou returnest to her arms again 

She breathes no farewell save, aufzuieder sehen! 



THE BATTLE OF BENNINGTON. 

1777 1877 

Twas the eve of that glorious battle morn, 

On Vermont's green mountains, in splendor born ! 

Down from the frowning clouds, the rain 

In torrents fell over hill and plain ; 

It bent the trees, and the golden grain. 

Beating the roof and the window pane. 

While the lightning danced on the mountains far 

And the thunder boomed like the guns of war ! 



Crowning a hill in Bennington town, 

Stood a low-browed tavern, broad and brown. 

With a novel sign, .whose like I ween 



POEMS. 3 I 

In book of heraldry ne'er was seen : 

'Twas a catamount, swung from a sapling slight 

Looking alive, as its teeth gleamed white! 

When the light from the lonely lantern flared 

At the open doorway, its wild eyes glared, 

And it seemed through the gloom, to keep its watch 

The Hessian or " Yorker " foe, to catch ! 

Within the inn from the candles tall, 

A soft light shone o'er the rooms and hall ; 

And lingered in many a silvery line. 

On the carven wainscot of native pine ; 

On the musket, and pictures upon the wall. 

O'er the white haired landlord, grave and tall, 

On the stalwart forms, that were moving there. 

With speech and counsel, oath and prayer. 

Here the " Council of Safety" held their court, 

Sentenced the " Tories," with session short ; 

And framed the laws with a loyal zeal 

Enforced with the stamp of the famed "• Beech seal," 

Vermont's brave sons undaunted, true 

As the emerald hills before their view ! 

Allen the fearless, rough, unmoved ; 

Warner the Ranger's colonel loved ; 

Robinson, Chittenden, Baker, Fay, 

Dewey, Fassett, and such as they 

Whose names are written with deathless pen, 

On the roll of heroes, revered by men I 



32 • POEMS. 

On this August night mid rain and gloom, 
There was gathered within the council room, 
An eager, anxious and earnest crowd ; 
Who with nervous gestures and voices loud, 
With solemn purpose and steady plan, 
Arranged for the battle, man with man, 
And were restless for morning's light to break 
To war for right and their country's sake. 
They would live in freedom from king and crown. 
Or would lay their lives with the foeman down; 
They ask no congress for right to move. 
But would follow their leaders brave, through love. 
Then with parting word, for the night was spent. 
To their homes, or the distant camp they went. 



Bright rose the morning's sun serene. 

No lingerings of the storm were seen. 

The meadows wore a brighter green. 

The swollen river shone between. 

And proudly rose the mountains far. 

On nature's face no frown of war. 

Then lo ! From out the forests still. 

With stately march and sturdy will. 

The gallant columns moved apace. 

Toward the " Heights " looked every face ! 

They came from forge, from shop, from farm ; 

The " Parson " with his gospel arm 

Upraised, was eager for the fight, 

Strong in his faith for God, and right, 



POEMS. 33 



Ranger and volunteer, as one, 
Gathered beneath that August sun, 
Ununiformed, untried, yet brave. 
They knew their power to fight and save ! 



The miry road they wound along. 
And every mile they grew more strong, 
'Till soon the foe with colors bright. 
Stood grouped before their waiting sight. 
Brave Stark commanding called aloud 
Unto his little army, proud. — 
" The red-coats ! See ! ! — We win this fight. 
Else Molly Stark this very night 
Must sleep a widow ! " — Then to view 
The foe's defences burst, clear through 
The stubborn outworks, on they prest. 
From northern wing, and from the west ; 
While from the British breastworks poured 
The Hessian fire. ' The cannon roared ; 
The line it wavered, comrades fell. 
Still pushed they bravely on, and well. 
Heedless of hail from rattling shot. 
Or blistered hand from rifle hot ; 
They rushed and leaped o'er parapet. 
And charged with butt and bayonet. 
Wearied and hungry, wounded sore. 
With throbbing brows and stained with gore. 
They held their posts 'till the fight was done, 
5 



34 POEMS. 

The foe was routed, the battle won, 
While the rays of the setting sun were shed 
O'er a smoking plain, with its pallid dead, 
And the twilight shadows reached down upon 
The victory field of Bennington ! 



In Paris proud, 'neath a golden dome, 
Where wondering pilgrims ever come ; 
'Neath massive marble and sculptured stone 
Is gathered the dust of Napoleon ! 
There's a legend told that a mighty host. 
Shadowy, ghostly, to vision lost. 
Paces ever the tomb, before. 
In tattered garments streaked with gore ; 
Who, pallid and wounded keep watch and ward. 
'Tis the band of the emperor's famous Guard ! 
They wait his rising, who sleeps below. 
To follow his form through heat, or snow, 
'Till he lead to glory and victory ; 
And they wait the day and hour to be ! 



No shadowy, ghostly guard have we 

Pacing before dead royalty ; 

But giant forms that to-day we see 

Uprise in their glorious history ! 

Oh ye with the clear eyed sight of seers 

Who glanced o'er the wid'ning space of years 



POEMS. 

And saw a Form whose radiance bright 

Flooded the western world with light, 

Oh soldiers brave of those mighty days 

Whom we crown with a century's crown of bays, 

Keep ye your vigils over our land. 

O'er valley and mountain, river and strand ! 

In rain or sunshine, calm or storm. 

Guard ye this beauteous living form. 

Warm with the youth of her hundred years. 

With her pulsing heart and her shining tears. 

Oh watch our Land in her strength and pride, 

Ye love her fondly and for her died ! 

So lead her upward, thy guard ne'er cease 

Till she enter the endless years of Peace ! 



35 



36 POEMS. 



^actetr, 



A CHRISTMAS LEGEND. 

In convent prayed a fervent saint of old 

For answer how he best could serve his Lord. 

" Think not, dear Christ, Thy servant overbold 

That he entreats Thy presence or Thy word ; 

Show to my eyes Thy holy, heavenly glory. 

Give me some mighty work Thy praise to tell, 

Let me proclaim to wondering ears the story 

Of Thine appearance in a poor monk's cell." 

Twas winter, and the chiming bells outpouring 

Upon the frosty air did sound so clear, 

Like clarion notes of angels, who adoring 

Chanted their songs, that Heaven and earth might hear. 

The holy Christmas-tide was close at hand 

The glorious season of the Savior's birth, 

And gently falling snow o'er all the land. 

Seemed telling of good will and peace, to earth ! 

With praying eyes the monk in dream elysian. 
Knelt with a trembling hope, and faith sublime 
That to his longing gaze would come the vision 
Of Him, whose reign shall be through coming time ! 



POEMS. 

And lo ! a silver light came o'er him streaming, 
A dazzling brightness from another sphere ; 
And like a seraph's whisper heard in dreaming, 
Was borne this sentence to his wondering ear ; 
" I hear your prayer, you wish a noble task. 
And this I give you for my day of birth — 
Make glad my children, feed my poor, I ask 
Care for the suffering, sinful ones of earth. 
Seek these, and comfort them, this charity 
The mighty work that thou canst do for me." 
Twas silent. Then with timid, reverent sight 
The monk gazed upward and within his cell 
Saw Christ the God-child clad in raiment white, 
While round His shining form a halo fell 
So bright he could not look, and bowed his head ; 
Then longing more to see the face so mild, 
Lifted his eyes to find the vision fled — 
The lovely vision of the Jesu-child ! 

The monk arose. Out from the convent door. 

Over the snow to call the children in; 

Begging for alms to feed the hungry poor. 

And gather them the convent walls within. 

From north and south, and from the west and east. 

The erring, poor, and suffering, he brought. 

Warmed them and made a glorious Christmas feast, 

While on the birthday of the Lord, he taught 

To them His mercy and His charity. 

Then round the Christmas tree the children sang. 



37 



38 POEMS. 

Their voices jnbilant with childish glee, 

Loudly the choral thro' the clear air rang 

" Our Blessed Lord was once a child as we ! " 

" Dear Christ," low prayed the monk, " that this may be 

In every year, my welcome feast to thee ! " 

And we in age remote the lesson given. 

Can we not also join this feast to make. 

This glorious work to please the Lord of Heaven 

Who lived and suffered for our human sake ? 

Give Him the feast, with children's joy and play. 

And make the sad ones glad, on Christmas day ! 



CHRISTMAS. 



Fall gently snow, in love; 
Cover the earth and keep it pure and bright. 
For down a thousand centuries this night 

Comes Jesus from above. 

O Holy, glorious night ! 
O greatest tidings ever herald told. 
O story ever new and yet so old 

O Star of all most bright I 

That Star we may not see. 
The wise men saw and followed from afar. 
Nor bring as costly gifts and fragrant myrrh 
To His Divinity ! 



POEMS. 

Still can we bring 
Far loftier gifts and praise unto his feet ; 
Sin-ransomed souls and human love are meet 

For thee O, King ! 

Bright childhood's glee, 
With holly wreaths, and anthem's jubilee, 
And to thy poor kind deeds of charity — 
These are for Thee. 

O Jesu come ! 
With us abide, O Savior born this night ! 
And through the fleeting years be thou our light 
And lead us Home ! 



39 



EASTER SONG. 

O rejoice thee now, my soul. 

For thy mourning days are o'er ; 

Back the heavy stone doth roll 
From the sepulchre's dread door. 

Lo ! Thy Lord again doth rise, 
And thou shalt from sin be free ; 

He endured death's mysteries 

That He thus might ransom thee. 



40 POEMS. 



Brightly breaks the golden morn 
With its promise and its word ; 

Soul, arise thee with its dawn 
And mount upward to thy Lord. 



EASTER. 

Let me arise, O Savior, 

As Thou arisen art, 
And let me plead Thy favor 

For this my waiting heart. 

From out this worldly prison. 
Its care and sin set free, 

In the sweet Christ arisen 
My soul at peace would be. 

Oh let me feel Thee guiding. 
And help me to press on. 

With faith in thee confiding 
Until the end be won. 

And when for me at even 
The curtains shall be drawn, 

O grant that in Thy Heaven 
I greet an Easter morn ! 



POEMS. 41 

DEDICATION HYMN. 

Parish House, St. Peter's Church, Albany, N. Y. 

Saviour, we come this day, 

Low at Thy feet to lay 
A loving offering from our hearts to Thee ; 

Since Thou did'st hold as meet. 
The oil poured o'er Thy feet, 

A fragrant gift may this accepted be ! 

Be this Thy fold, O Lord ; 

. Who, in Thy holy word 

Said " Little children, suffer them to come. 

My Kingdom is of such !" 
O Jesus, do Thou touch 

Each heart that enters here, and lead it home ! 

Gather Thy lambs in flocks. 

Far wandering 'mid the rocks ; 
Here can they rest in safety from the storm ! 

This Temple be Thy fold. 
From out the great world's cold ; 

Its holy love and light their souls shall warm. 

Sweet Jesus, grant Thy grace. 

To all within this place. 
Faith to their hearts, and hope and peace be given ; 



42 POEMS. 

Till earthly labor done. 
Eternity be won, 

And all Thine own, they dwell with Thee in Heaven ! 

To God, the Almighty One, 

Jesus, His only Son, 
To Holy Ghost be glory given now ! 

Throughout the world's domain. 
And Heaven repeat again. 

Eternally the praise, that all may bow ! 



POEMS. 43 



fin JWemariam, 

WILLIAM CASSIDY. 

" High thoughts and amiable words 
And courtliness and the desire of fame 
And love of truth and all that makes a man," 
Was good King Arthur's model long ago ! 
And we of centuries later in our midst 
But yesterday could point to such an one. 
O Death ! Could'st thou not pass him by ? 
Our need was great in this wild time 
When the grand name of Gentleman 
Is so assoiled, dishonored. When noble 
Deeds and gentle courtesies are pushed aside 
In the mad rush for victory and gain ! 
We need his nature, and the calm, clear words 
That rolled across the riotous sea political 
And to the angry billows said — be still ! 
That broke through prejudice and narrow views 
Alike of Church or State and freely gave 
To clouded minds a wider liberal thought, 

His tender heart 
And charities won from the masses 
Reverence and love. Opponents found 



44 POEMS. 

His pen had diamond point, which with 
Incisive word, cut through the subject 
Deep into the core. With cultured glance 
Across the world, he caught its tongues 
And drew into our own their silver thoughts 
For our delight and profit. 

The social life 
Which knew him nearer, dearer. 
His thoughtful countenance, his glowing words. 
His noble form that moved among them 
Courteously kind, shall mourn 
His presence in the years to come ! 

The earnest lips 
And tender words are hushed forevermore ! 
The solemn service of the minster chaunted, 
His form borne forth from out our gaze 
Into the silent keeping of our earth is given. 
Strew flowers and tears and tender memories. 

Thus leave him ! 
O Christ, thou crucified, receive him ! 



"BURY ME IN THE SUNSHINE." 

Dying words of Archbishop Hughes. 

Aye, in the sunlight bury him, the loved and honored priest. 
Let his grave the sunlight cover, as it rises in the east ; 
For the body's sake alone, for the spirit hath the light 
In the land of purer rays and of the sun more bright. 



POEMS. 45 

The sunlight of pure noble deeds did bless him all his life, 
And the whiteness of a pious heart kept pure amid the 

strife, 
The war, the tumult seemed to bear his spirit higher 
Above all earthly tempest cleansed, tempered as by fire. 

And his spirit took its flight gently as a summer day doth 

rest 
On the horizon of heaven as the sun sinks in the west. 
And the parapets of heaven burst a sunrise to his view 
As he left the year on earth to begin in bliss the new. 

Th' eternal year ! Be nunc dimittis chaunted 

For his goodness to the poor, be their tears as tribute 

granted ; 
So may he peaceful rest nor our remembrance leaving 
For this his glorious gain must stifle all our grieving ! 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Lost on the Ville du Havre, November 22d, 1873, Judge Rufus W. and 
Mary E. Peckham of Albany, N. Y. 

Of thee we ask the loved and lost, O Sea ! 
Give back their forms, 'tis all of thee we crave ; 
Keep all thy wealth of fleet and argosy. 
Yield thou our dead, though only for a grave ! 



46 POEMS. 

A grave where 'grass may grow above the sleepers, 
And violets bloom above the treasured sod, 
Where mourning, yet consoled, may come the weepers 
And from their dust look up to Heaven and God ! 

Vainly we ask. With ceaseless monotone 
The waves dash on ! In ocean's halls must lie 
Beloved forms untended and alone 
Till the last day breaks to eternity. 

Rest honored name, unstained integrity, 
Rest gentle woman's form beloved by all ; 
Within our hearts shall ye remembered be 
Though o'er thy graves our tears may never fall. 

God's holy church with comfort in her speech 
Reveres thy memory and mourns thy loss ; 
And o'er thy ocean graves adown shall reach 
The golden shadow of her holy cross ! 

Dear Lord, these cherished forms we mourn as dead 
In thy sweet mercy trusting, still we see 
From the unfathomed space of ocean led 
Up through thy sea gate, to eternity ! 



POEMS. 



47 



jTr^e STtansilatiiDnis^ 



THE MINSTREL'S CURSE. 

UHLAND. 

In the olden times there stood a castle bright and grand, 
It glanced from hill and valley far o'er the blue sea's strand, 
'Circled by perfumed gardens wreathed by all flowrets rare. 
And rainbow-hued the fountains played in the sunny air. 

Here dwelt a haughty monarch in land and conquest great, 
Who stern and cruel-hearted sat on his throne of state 
His thoughts were those of terror, his glance of rage alone, 
The writing of his hand was blood, a scourge his every tone. 

Once journeyed to this palace a noble minstrel pair. 
The one with golden curling locks, the other gray in hair. 
The elder mounted with his harp upon a brave decked 
steed. 

The glowing youth beside him sprang,- of horse he had no 
need. 

The sire spoke thus to the youth : " My son now be thou 

strong, 
Sound thou thy clearest, deepest tone, and think thy ten- 

derest song. 



48 POEMS. 

Bring forth each soul-inspiring lay of joyousness and pain, 
If we can touch this monarch's heart 'twill be a nation's 
gain." 

Soon stood the Minnesingers within the lofty hall ; 
Upon their throne sat king and queen, around the courtiers all. 
The kifig in splendor blazing, like blood red northern light. 
The queen with mein so mild as shines the moon at night. 

The sire struck the harp's deep chords, he struck them full 

and clear j 
And richer yet and still more rich, they fell upon the ear ; 
Then soared above so heavenly pure the youthful voice 

of fire, 
While low and deep the other voice, joined like a spirit 

choir. 

They sang of love and spring;, of chivalry, and youth. 

Of the blissful golden age, of holiness and truth, — 

Of freedom, and the sweetest themes the human heart can 

move 
And every noble, lofty aim the human breast can love. 

The courtiers circling round forget the mocking word, 
The monarch's haughtiest knights, bend down the knee to 

God ; 
Moved both by sadness and by joy, the queen, with glances 

sweet, 
Plucks from her breast the rose, and flings it at the singers' 

feet ! 



POEMS. 49 

" Thou hast my folk corrupted, enticest thou my queen," 
Loud cries the king, his dreadful rage by all the court is 

seen, 
He draws his sword and downwards hurls it through the 

minstrel's breast — 
And where the golden song burst forth, now red the life 

stream prest ! 

The courtly throng stood dumb, as from a storm's alarms, 
The youthful form lay dead, within the minstrel's arms, 
He threw his mantle o'er the corse, then it he gently bore. 
And bound upon the gallant steed and slowly walked before 

On to the massive gates ; then stood, his harp in hand, 
That harp of sweetest tone, and priceless in the land. 
Against a marble column he broke its silver strings ! 
Then clarion like his wailing voice through court and palace 
rings, 

" Woe to your stately corridors, for never tender tone. 
Of harp or song your walls shall hear, these be the sounds 

alone — 
The tread of slaves, and sighs and groans, be heard within 

your halls. 
Until to ruin and murder th' avenging spirit calls ! 

" And thou. Oh maddened murderer ! Look thou upon 

the dead ! 
A kingdom great — the realm of Song — hurls curses on 

thy head ! 

7 



50 POEMS. 

In vain thy strife for glory, or laurels for thy fame, 

In darkest night forgotten, shall sink thy cruel name ! " 

So rang the aged voice. The heavens above are just ! 
The mighty palace walls have fallen to the dust, 
Alone one broken column, tells of all its vanished might. 
And this the sport of storm and wind may crumble in a 
night. 

Where bloomed the perfumed garden, lies a lonely desert 

land, 
No trees spread cooling shadows, no stream sings through 

the sand. 
No mention of the monarch's name in heroes' book or verse. 
Forgotten, desolated ! Such was the minstrel's curse ! 



A LOVE SONG. 



ALTMEYER. 



Maiden mine, Maiden mine, Oh, say to me. 

What flower would'st choose, could'st thou a flower 

be — 
A Tulip ? "No, for perfume hath it none. 
Its only aim to coquet with the sun, 
And flaunt its gaudy robes that all may see. 
Ah, no ! Thy maiden loveth modesty !" 



POEMS. 51 

Maiden mine, Maiden mine, O, say to me, 

What flower would'st choose, could'st thou a flower 

be — 
A Rose ? "Ah no — though beauteous in its bloom 
While from its blushing heart steals sweet perfume ; 
Yet when I'd pluck, my finger's flesh is torn ! 
Ah, cruel rose — I cannot love its thorn !" 

Maiden mine. Maiden mine. Oh, say to me, 

What flower would'st choose, could'st thou a flower 

be — 
A Lily ? "No — for stately, pale and proud. 
It lifts its haughty head above the crowd 
As if it said "my pride and purity 
Crown me the fairest of all flowers that be." 

Maiden mine. Maiden mine. Oh, say to me. 
What flower would'st choose, could'st thou a flower 

be — 
A violet, then ? "O now, thou sayest true. 
It has no thorns or pride, but modest, true. 
By a fond lover given, is fragrant pressed 
With treasured thoughts, upon a maiden's breast !" 

Ah, maiden mine, hadst thou asked me, 

In flower life what flower I'd be 

Which one to name, I'd scarce have known ; 

But now thy words a flower crown 

Whose happy fate o'ershines the rest ! 

I'd be that flower one blissful hour. 

Then gladly die on Beauty's breast ! 



52 POEMS. 



A MAY WINE VISION. 



OTTO ROQUETTE. 



Twas on a journey, my companions they 
Lingering through vale and forest wound their way ; 
Before the night came on, alone I found 
The sought-for inn, by vines encircled round. 

Where under vine-clad bower for us awaited, 
Full laden cups with fragrant May wine freighted 
Their spicy odors to the warm breeze flung ; 
While o'er the vale, night's sable mantle hung. 

O night how fair ! The sultry summer heat 
Sent distant lightning flashes thwart the sky ; 
And echoing round from branch and blossom sweet. 
Answered the plaintive nightingale's soft cry. 

The vines embraced caressingly each other. 
The scented air seemed almost breath to smother 
My dreamy brain was filled with thoughts so fair. 
They gleamed like dancing stars, before me there ! 

At once where was I ? In the blossoming shade, 
A fairy scene was as by magic made ! 
The foliage filling, airy spirits glide 
Around and over me, and by my side. 



POEMS. 53 

While from the perfumed bath of golden wine, 
Shaking the drops, assuming forms divine. 
My wondering eyes a pair of lovers trace 
Folding each other in a glad embrace ! 

Ah what a tiny beauteous pair and fond, 

So wondrously fair this fairy bond. 

Vine born is she, and he an herb, whose breath 

The golden nectar richly savoreth. 

Still further on my magic tale unfolds. 
The broad vine's verdant vaulted foliage holds 
Confused whirr-like sounds of battle cry, 
The object of this anger, it is I ! . 

They have discovered me, and on they press. 
Waving their gleaming spears in eagerness — 
To snatch my breath ! Before my throbbing brain 
Danced the vine princess, and her loving swain. 

But lo ! A king advances suddenly. 

It is King Fire Wine, the great, the free ! 

The weapons sink, still is the murmuring crowd ; 

He speaks to them, to me, in accents proud. 

" Ruling the blooming world the vine we see ; 

So is the poet in his kingdom, lord. 

With storms he battles even as do we, 

To gain the goal ordained by Nature's word. 



54 POEMS. 

Painfully through fissured rock's dark length 
The vine creeps onward in her silent strength, 
With tears in spring she moisteneth the soil, 
Struggling till blossoming, greet her earnest toil. 

Though hard may be the rock, still brighter gleams 
The golden stream of wine, some sunny morn. 
Through dust and darkness, even so brighter streams. 
The immortal Song in toil and anguish born. 

Then throb the hearts of men, they gladly throng 
Around the golden gifts of Wine and Song ; 
Forgetting toil, forgetting all things sad, 
They crown with laurel leaves, the Poet glad ! 

O blissful power is his, thus to proclaim 

The silent thought that in man's heart doth beat. 

And happy gift is ours to inflame 

With joy the vision by Wine's fragrant heat. 

Hence ! Let him free and far o'er yonder hills 
Extend your wings, and work your angry wills 
On scoffers, fright them with your weapon's gleam. 
But to this Poet, leave his song and dream." 

Then softly bending bowed the vines adown, 
Night dews shone glistening in the moon's soft gleam. 
Fleet, glancing stars from heights above were thrown 
And found their burial in the distant stream. 



POEMS. 55 

And hark ! an echo of a merry song, 

Is through the silent valley borne along ; 

The friends approach. The fairy throng have gone, 

They name me dreamer, in a jesting tone ; 

Perhaps I dreamed, perhaps 'twas May wine brought 

This magic scene to me, with beauty fraught ! 



A HUMAN HEART. 



I oped the door of a deserted room, 

And entered where for many a lonely year 

No step had crossed the threshold of its gloom, 
Or hand let in the sunlight's warmth and cheer. 

The air was heavy as an ancient tomb; 

The light fell wanly on the faded wall ; 
And on the ruined grandeur of the room 

The dust-like ashes lay, o'er covering all. 

And eltrich was it in this silent room ; 

A perfume hovered like the winds of spring, 
Or passionate roses in their early bloom, 

And back the vanished Past to me did bring ! 

For I was happy once within this place. 

Far from the cares of life that 'round me pressed ; 

Here fled I to my tender Love's embrace 
And was within her snowy arms at rest. 



56 POEMS. 

Kisses the gods had envied in their heaven ; 

Whispers far sweeter than the nightingale, 
Within this chamber long ago was given, 

Whi'e in the sky the stars and moon shone pale ! 

Here is the cushion where her dear head laid ; 

The mirror, that her form reflected fair. 
And 'round her beauteous face a halo made 

With the bright glory of her shining hair. 

And here, oh God, the ancient clock still stands ! 

On its bronze pedestal the same doth seem 
As when with swinging tongue and hastening hands 

It told the flying hours of my dream! 

I haste with trembling steps across the floor. 
Beneath my feet each crumbling timber bends ; 

The curious wind intruding by the door 

The dust in whirling clouds around me sends. 

Then starts within the clock a sudden sound ; 

The pendulum swings slowly to and fro. 
And achingly, the rusty spindles 'round, 

The weary wheels essay their course to go. 

The hands they shiver on its pallid face, 

Once, twice, and thrice, it strikes with desperate wil 
Then 'ere the echoes die within the space 

Stands as before, stern, motionless and still. 



POEMS. rj 

And there I pondered on a human heart, 

Whose Love and spring long since had passed away, 
That through the years lay silent and apart. 

Far from the bloom and sunlight of the day. 

Until Remembrance entered thro' the room 
Listless and dumb it lay, this weary heart ; 

She, whispered of past joys and roses' bloom. 
Then like the clock the heart did pulsing start. 

Throb once, twice, thrice, in hopeless, longing pain, 
And then was covered with the dust again ! 



OTTO IIL 



The body of Charlemagne was embalmed, clothed in imperial robes and in 
the cathedral vault a marble throne «.as built, upon which he sat with all the 
insignia of royalty, and the tomb was sealed. 

Deep lies on garden, street and square 

The silence of the night. 
Save, from th'imperial palace, there 

Streams forth a sea of light. 
From open casement swells the sound 

Of song and wildest laugh ; 

^y laden tables gathered round. 

The wine brimmed glass they quaff! 

Where shadows hide the arched door 

Gleams forth a sudden light. 
And tramping o'er the marble floor 



58 POEMS. 

Sway out upon the night 
With waving swords and brows aflame 

A wine-wild reckless band ! 
Each owner of a noble name, 

But now with boastful hand 
By their young Sire insanely led 

They seek a deed of shame, 
To break the slumber of the dead — 
Great Emperor, Charlemagne! 

Through the old minster marching down 
Beneath its aisles they halt. 

The massive walls in silence frown 
Stern guardians of the vault ! 

Oh this a deed that well might doom 
A knight ; a deed profane 

Thus to disturb the ancient tomb. 
Of honored Charlemagne ! 

But soon upon the time worn walls, 

Their mortar and their stone. 
Each sharpened weapon swinging falls, 

'Till, yielding with a groan, 
The fragments lie beneath their feet. 

The torches gleam blood red. 
The knights press on, the deed complete. 

To face the mighty Dead ! 
From out the gloom a perfume pours 

An eastern rare perfume ! 



POEMS. 

The flick'ring torch still higher soars 
And fills with light the tomb. 

He sits upon the marble throne 

So sad, so stern, so great ! 
Upon his head the glittering crown, 

Clothed in his robes of state. 
The sceptre in his withered hand, 

The dead eyes seem to glance. 
As though he still ruled o'er the land. 
Great Charlemagne of France ! 

Hush ! See the knights are bending low 

In humbled earnest prayer. 
Their homage yielding pale they bow 

Before the greatnesss there ! 
And Otto's haughty form reveals 

He owns the Kingly power. 
Out to the midnight air he reels 

And seals, that very hour. 
The vault anew ; In silent gloom 

They place each massive stone. 
And once again, within his tomb, 
The Emperor sits alone! 

But since that awful midnight hour 

The Emperor Otto seems 
Dumb from some overshadowing power. 

And dead to youth's bright dreams. 



59 



6o POEMS. 

At last in death his eyes grow dim 

And still each shuddering vein 
For through his life it followed him 
The glance of Charlemagne ! 



THE RING. 



One morning toward the river 

Roamed a knight who loved a maid ; 

Yet whose trust in her was ever 
Of her love and truth afraid. 

Thus while he musing went, 

He pressed a golden ring 
With glances downvs^ard bent, 

He spoke thus questioning : 

" My ring it is thy duty. 
Acquaint me frank and free 

Thou love pledge from my Beauty 
If she be true to me." 

While thus he spoke and waited 

It from his finger flung. 
As if a thing elated 

It o'er the meadow sprung. 



POEMS. 6 1 

He seeks with eager grasp 

On to the river's side, 
But the golden flowers clasp, 

And the dewy grasses hide. 

A falcon from linden bower 

The glittering toy espies, 
And bears from the grass and flower 

Afar his new-found prize. 

Up with wide-spreading wing 

Out o'er the waters blue ; 
Then the golden glittering thing 

Became the sport of two. 

But lost to the birds from the height 

Downward fell to the river ; 
And the anxious, watching knight. 

Saw it vanish forever ! 

" O ring upon the meadow 

Thou wert kissed by grass and flower ; 
Caught by thy wavering shadow. 

The falcons strove for power. 

O ring ! On the river's ground. 

The prize of the fish so free. 
Have I in thy symbols found 

My sweet heart's faith to me ?" 



62 POEMS. 

ANY HOW. 



HUNGARIAN OF PETOFI. 



Doubtingly awaited I my wedding morning, great my fear, 
Yet it is with this day's wintry dawning surely here. 
How in all the world my life shall go 
Guess I not, it will not wait I know 
Any how ! 

Only a poor peasant's healthy son, here I stand 
Not so much as even to kneel upon of the land. 
Yet though gold be wanting, this is so 
Live we must and will, I surely know 
Any how ! 

She my bride a maiden is with stubborn head, 
I say not a yes, to that or this, a spaniel led ! 
So perhaps the blood will angry flow 
In our hearts, and yet, life smooth must go 
Any how ! 

She must yield to-morrow, I to-day, so we'll go 
Right along upon our daily way fast or slow. 
If the day shall find the strife begun 
We will kiss and rest at set of sun 
Any how ! 



POEMS. 63 



FREDERICK BARBAROSSA. 

Now after the centuries long have grown 
The Emperor wakes from his sleep. 

" Ho ! Slave bring word have the ravens flown 
From the KyfFhaiiser turret steep ?" 

" O Sire, a tri-color waves this hour 

The ravens have flown away ; 
Black white and red gleams from the tower 

Gleams in the light of day." 

Then the Emperor springs from his seat of stone 

From his eyes all sleep has fled 
Like fire they shine from his brows that frown. 

His beard unshorn and his hoary head. 

With mighty hand, he grasps the sword 

And shouts with clarion cry 
" The hour is here, I hold my word 

To lead to victory ! " 

Germania old, Germania one! 

Calls, and awakes in ire, 
To drive the foe to the setting sun, 

And fight with her olden fire ; 

That kindled my breast when I fought in Spain 

And sent the dogs to their fate, 
Oh the fire burns thro' my veins again. 

My awaking was not too late ! 



64 POEMS. 

Up slave ! Bring purple robes of pride 

And trim my beard and hair, 
To my kingdom's bridal feast I ride, 

Her Emperor must be there. 

Old father Rhine shall give me greet 

Who dare say he is not mine ? 
He'll faithful dash at his master's feet 

True river the German Rhine! 

His waves that rise in pride to-day, 
Should a strange flag o'er them shine. 

Would stagnant grow and vanish away 
For the Rhine is a German Rhine ! 

Now slave with the gleam of spear and lance 

I ride forward in the sun. 
To greet the foe from the land of France 

And fight till this day be done ! " 

And he grandly rode thro' the battle thick 
With smoke and thunder of gun. 

'Twas at Worth, the old Emperor Frederick 
Stood, when the battle was won ! 



POEMS. 65 

THE RING. 



H. LERB. 



"Thou symbol of a bond, O ring, 
Which Death alone can loosen. 

How came it, O thou glittering thing. 
That ever fashioned thou wert chosen ? 

Who fashioned thee, who gave thee birth. 

O'er mountain and o'er river 
To be the marriage sign on earth 

Of union, joined forever ? " 

Thus musing o'er my ring so bright 

Alone among the roses, 
A voice speaks through the summer night. 
This legend it discloses. 
" Lighted by Amor's torch Vulcan with powerful hand 
Forges with ponderous blows, beating a massive band 
Out from the boiling metal, the giant limbs to bind 
Of strong Prometheus, now overcome and blind. 
Near him stands Eros, the boy, watching his father bold. 
Marking the heavy blows and the boiling drops of gold. 
Then as they fly and flow and leap in a golden river. 
Catches he them so slyly, hiding them in his quiver ! 
Then he the tyrant fashions, as fashioned his father. 
The drops in a golden band, beating them firm together 
Laughing he speaks — " This shall be on slender finger a 
band 

9 -. 



66 POEMS. 

Binding a woman subject to man, with her heart and her 

hand. 
But woe to the maiden who chains but the hand not the 

heart, 
Then shall the weight of the chain make bitterest smart. 
So can I bind even as Vulcan's Titans have bound 
The strong one lying helpless now in a gloom profound !' 
Then from his rosy fingers 
Triumphing flings the boy. 
Out in the circling earth. 
His new made glittering toy. 
Mortals name it a ring. 
And its power is know full well ; 
Many a tale of its joy, of its worth. 
Of its bondage they tell ! " 



THE CASTLE UNDER THE SEA. 

Soft o'er the forest sinks the night. 

In shadows deep wide lies the sea ; 

In the fisherman's hut who awake can be, 

Where flickers and flares the light ? 

In the low still room by the lamp's dim gloom, 

Grandmother is telling tales of fear. 

Of sprites and gnomes, and the maidens hear 

With trembling forms, and crouch to listen, 

While the eyes of the fisher boy glisten ! 



POEMS. 67 

The stories are told, all is still in the cot, 
The old and the young are sleeping ; 
Only the boy turns on his pillow so hot. 
And the moon through the window is peeping. 
Midnight hath tolled from the clock so old. 
He springeth up from his bed so bold, 
'' O now is the time the truth to trace," 
And he boundeth forth with wild, bright face. 



He left the hut, he left the shore, 
The beach was veiled in mist like hoar. 
He loosed the boat upon the flood 
And pulled her fast with boiling blood. 
He fought and pulled against the tide 
Far out upon the waters wide 
His ear was caught by distant singing. 
And harps and flutes in music ringing. 
And swords and golden goblets klinging ! 

Far o'er the small boat's side he stirred. 
And looked far down in the depths so clear. 
From another world sweet words he heard. 
And it seemed to his eyes so near, so near ! 

He saw the dome and delicate towers 

Of the palace of pearl, his grandmother told ; 

Of the coral gardens and fairy bowers. 

And turrets that shone with gold. 

It stood so bright before the view, 

" Oh yes, what Grandmother told was true ! ' 



68 POEMS. 

Yet the palace court is all so still, 

Tho' the lights burn bright in the palace hall, 

And now the guests the tables fill, 

The strains grow sweeter and seem to call, 

" Come to the revel one and all, 

Th' sheen on the fruit, the bead on the wine 

And beauty, music, and love are divine ! " 

The song it swells and grows more sweet 
And beautiful forms move in the dance ; 
Those wildly waltzing, tiny feet 
N'er cease and soft the bright eyes glance. 

The fisher boy bends nearer down. 

The strains grow wilder and wilder. 

Oh how the bacchantes throng and throng ! 

One sweet face shining milder 

Than others, beckons to him. 

With laughing mouth o'er the waters dim, 

" Grandmother thou hast not lied to me ! " 

And he springs with gladness into the sea ! 

The morning dawns so cold and clear. 
The fishers go down to their nets by the sea. 
But what is that which stirs their fear ? 
To them naught that's living can fearful be ! 
Far off they see an empty boat, 
Near them a pallid corpse doth float, 
With strange wild eyes and streaming hair, 
'Tis the face of the fisher boy lying there ! 



POEMS. 69 

Soft o'er the forest sinks the night, 

In shadows deep wide lies the sea ; 

In the fisherman's hut who awake can be 

Where flickers and flares the light ? 

Grandmother is weaving a burial wreath, 

In the still low room, by the lamp's dim gloom, 

As she prays with bated breath ; 

And the funeral light of a taper is shed. 

O'er the bier of the fisher boy dead ! 



APPRECIATION. 

HAMMERLING. 



Cast not away to the darkness the chalice, 

From which the bliss-laden fountain has streamed ; 

Holy forever to thee be the bosom 

Where, in the heaven of love, thou hast dreamed! 

Though long has passed the wild passion and fever, 
Soil not the fountain that cooled thy fierce breath ; 
Let the wind scatter the withering flower. 
He were a wretch who would trample its death. 

Drink the last drops of joys, once deemed immortal. 
Grateful as when the first draught filled thy soul ; 
Wreathing with flowers the heart's closing portal 
That gave thee its treasure of trust and of love. 



70 



POEMS. 



Though bliss has vanished, still guard thou 'till dying. 
What thou hast joyed in, and what thou hast dreamed 
Cast not away to the darkness the chalice 
From which the bliss-laden fountain has streamed ! 



ADORATION. 

MIRZA SCHAFFY. 



When, at the final day, shall ope 

The gates of Heaven to waiting mortals, 

And 'mid the throng who trembling hope, 
A chosen few shall pass the portals. 

Among the multitude who wait 

Alone shall I undaunted be. 
Since I on earth, oh happy fate ! 

Have won my Paradise in thee! 



HANS HEILING'S FELSEN. 

Among the many beautiful surroundings of Carlsbad, Bohemia, none are 
more frequently visited than " Hans Heiling's Felsen," a group of rocks bear- 
ing the resemblance of two human forms, and standing solitary and grand on 
the bank of the foaming silver Eger that dividss the lovely valley in which the 
city lies. This is the legend given by the guides of Carlsbad. 

Sultry the noon-day heat ; 

On the moss of the river's bank. 
Lulled by its murmur sweet 

In sleep the shepherd sank. 



POEMS. 71 



The youth had golden hair 

And cheeks like milk and blood, 

The nymph she found him fair, 
Gazing from out the flood. 

" Awake, thou lovely youth. 
My love cannot be told, 

I'll give thee wealth in truth. 
Jewels and crowns of gold. 

The boon I crave is love 
That thou wilt faithful be. 

For should'st thou falsely rove, 
Woe both for thee and me." 

Thus sang the nymph so fair 
In sweetly mournful tone, 

Her shimmering, golden hair 
O'er the white bosom shone. 

Like opals glowed her eyes 
Gazing on him she loved ; 

Till he awakes in sweet surprise, 
By fondest passion moved. 

'' Bright One ! An oath of love 

I swear to thee alone. 
True as the Heavens above. 

Else may I change to stone ! " 



72 POEMS. 

Then there, before his view, 
Slowly and proud and still, 

A stately castle grew 
And all was at his will. 

And happy dwelt he long 

Till a thought of Gretchen came, 

Then the water nymph's love song - 
Seemed but a song of shame ; 

She was a mystic creature 
Afar, unknown to him, 

He craved an humble nature. 
With more of earth therein. 

At last the peasant maiden 

He seeks, with heart and hand. 

And now, with gladness laden, 
Speedeth the marriage band. 

Bids many a bridal guest, 

In the castle's hall they throng ; 

And naught disturbs his breast, 
For all is light and song ! 

The water nymph has gone, 
Vanished beneath the wave ; 

He deems all is his own 

Nor heeds the oath he gave. 



POEMS. 

The priest at the altar stood. 
Awaiting the bridal pair, 

When the sound of a rushing flood 
Shook through the startled air ! 

With the roll of thunder surged 
The river in mountain height 

While with angry brow emerged 
From the waves the river sprite ! 

"Thou art false unto thy vow, 
Mine wast thou, mine alone ! 

So stand — thy bride and thou, 
Forever changed to stone ! " 

On Eger's shore to-day 

Still stand those forms of stone, 
A warning, so the old guides say. 

To those who, in a cruel way, 
With holy love and honor play. 

And hold them lightly won ! 



73 



THE LORELEI. 

There towers a mighty rock. 
O'er the silver flowing Rhine ; 

Will you hear its story told you, 
In these poor words of mine? 



74 POEMS. 

The air is dark and glow'ring, 

The wind is stirring cool, 
And in the fire of setting sun 
Glides weird the dark whirlpool. 

On the rock that towers above it 
Sits a siren, young and fair, 

With silver garments shining. 
She twines her golden hair. 

And as its waving ripples 

O'er shoulders white are blown, 

Her hands gleam snowy white, 
One clasps a golden comb. 

And among the waves of hair 
She threads it to and fro 

Down looking with her eyes of blue 
Upon the waves below. 

Ever singing a song so sweet. 
Oh woe ! that it should be 

Of such a witching power. 
The siren's melody ! 

A sailor, in tiny vessel, 

That smoothly glides along, 

Droppeth his faithful oar, 
To listen to her song; 



POEMS. 

And gazing with eager eyes 
On her of the golden hair, 

He heedeth nor seeth not, 

That the deadly whirr is there ! 

Ever nearer and nearer he glides. 

Still ever gazing above, 
Dreaming how fair she must be 

And how he can win her love. 

Oh the mouth of the whirlpool 

Gapes so wide adown ! 
And the bright eyed sailor 

And tiny boat have gone ! 

But she never ceaseth her song. 

She gives no cry, 
Oh false and cruel hearted 

The maid of the Lorelei ! 



IS 



REFLECTIONS. 



Upon the loftiest mountain peaks 

Lies an eternal snow, 
Within the soul that loftiest seeks, 

There dwells a lonely woe. 

The woe in heart, the snow on height 
No sun can melt away. 



76 POEMS. 



The ghostly glacier in its might 
Gleams o'er no flowery way. 

When on the ice the color plays 
And roseate splendor throws, 

A reflex 'tis, that sunset rays 
In dying send the snows. 

Where shines the head of martyr down. 

The soul its halo throws. 
O'er brow with bay or laurel crown 

The great heart's passion glows ! 



FROM THE NOTE BOOK OF THE EMPEROR 
MAXIMILIAN AT MIRAMAR. 

Ever toward the grave we press. 
Though Love may cling and life be sweet ; 
Though hearts beat fast and lips caress. 
And we move on with dancing feet. 
The time draws near when we shall hear 
The bells of death ring slow and clear. 
And in that sleep, so long, so deep. 
No heart shall bleed, no eye shall weep. 

Death comes, he beckons and we leave 
Hearts that do love and arms that hold ; 
Leaving those hearts alone to grieve. 
Drawn by the king so stern and cold ! 



POEMS. 77 

And long the train that follows him 
Down to the grave so still and dim, 
Yet in that sleep so calm, so deep. 
No heart shall hleed, no eye shall weep ! 

My love is dead, I mount my steed. 

And spur me on o'er east and west. 

Wild with the pain my heart doth bleed. 

Nor careth ought for joy or rest ; 

On would I speed and ever on, 

Till from my breast this heart be torn ! 

The streaming sun burns through my brain 
He in my sad heart's phantasy 
Lights her pale cheek with life again ; 
Rosy with life she stands 'fore me. 
Lips move to speak the long regret, 
Her tender eyes with tears are wet. 

Oh sink thou sun. The dream is gone. 
This jealous longing will not cease. 
Here while I weep in woe alone 
She sleeps in stillest, blessed peace ! 
Take me, O Death, O cut the thread 
That holds me here, and by my dead 
O lay thou me ; 
Let me deserted from life flee ! 



78 POEMS. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Oh gently spread thy pinions 
Above me beauteous night, 

That brought to earth's dominions 
Love's purest, hoHest Light ! 

And with thy sweet caressing 

My eyehds gently close. 
And flood my soul with blessing, 

With peace and faith's repose. 

Send down thy star to guide me 

Through earth's broad shadows dim, 

While I a child confide me 
Beneath thy wings to Him ! 



AFTER. 



When other lovers part. 

They gently clasp the hand, 

With grief in eyes and heart, 
Embracingly they stand. 

But we — we stood apart. 
No sigh, no sob was heard. 

But tear and aching heart ; 
Ah, they came afterward ! 



POEMS. 79 

THE JUSTICE OF PETER OF ARRAGON. 

AN ITALIAN LEGEND. 

Peter of Arragon ! cruel and wild, 

His name comes down the centuries to us, 

This is a story of his justice told. 



Through the long streets of Seville, silent they — 
For much the people feared their wicked king — 
Rides he, with throng of knights, a haughty train. 
His hand upon his golden jeweled sword. 
And like an eagle glancing his fierce eyes 
Seem ever seeking prey or cause for wrath. 
The children hide within their mothers' arms, 
Women shrink back lest his gaze on them fall 
And tear them from their safe retreats to grace 
His bacchanalian feasts. 

Closely the rabble press against the wall. 
On through the open way the courtiers move 
Toward the church of great San Dominique, 
Stately its spires and rich its cloisters are ; 
At its broad gates the king in horror halts. 
With deepest rage his eyes in anger gleam 
At the dread sight that meets his outraged gaze. 
A black bier stands without the entrance wide, 
And from it pours a pestilential breath, 



8o 



POEMS. 

That taints the air in all the spaces round. 

" Horrors of hell " ! Exclaims the angry king, 

" What means this Duke Medina, here I see." 

The courtier bowing low makes answer thus — 

" A poor man died upon the public road 

And lacking gold must here remain ungraved, 

'Till needful alms be given this cloister's prior. 

To cover in the earth the wretched body ; 

Oh mighty Sire, this is the truth I tell." 

" Before my face bring out the cloister's prior" — 

Then spoke the king. 

On wings of wind hastens the royal page. 

And soon from out the cloister's doors come forth 

A shaven train of monks, and leading them 

Appears the portly figure of the abbot. 

" Most holy monk I would but question thee, 

And know how great the sum that thou requirest 

To buy a grave for this poor sinful wretch?" 

" Oh king the pity of the passers by 

Moveth but slowly, of but thirty reals 

There lacketh yet full twenty ; still methinks 

These dreadful odors soon must quicken alms. 

And should it be that some more generous soul. 

This sinner's unclean body should entomb 

With all the mighty pomp of holy church. 

And De profundis chanted by the choir ; 

He has to pay only six hundred reals 

For such a work of love ! " 



POEMS. 8 I 

Then in deep voice of ire speaks the king, 

" Six hundred reals be it, yet do thou 

Bury this moment these decaying bones 

Whose pestilence o'er yonder gardens spreads 

Where all your holy brethren fast and pray ! 

Let quickly here the grave digger be brought." 

And forth he comes, a lusty fellow bold. 

Whose careless hands have hollowed many a grave. 

He throws the earth from spade as if a sport. 

In secret rage the king looks on but speaks, 

'* Oh holy abbot dost thou think that deed 

Like this, will profit me ? While thus I place 

Within earth's bosom this poor sinner's bones 

Upon my sins shall Heaven's pardon fall?" 

" The church, oh king, praises no greater deed. 

No deed can call upon you greater mercy ! " 

'Round the king's mouth there plays an awful smile. 

An oath breaks from his lips and looking down 

Upon the finished grave, he loudly cries, 

" Dig thou another and this cowled monk 

Alive, place in the darkness of the earth ! " 

From very terror stunned the digger stands. 

His spade down-dropping, and with staring eyes. 

" Did'st hear my words, why waitest thou dumb knave ?" 

In deathly fear 
Upon his knees before the king the monk 
Pleads for his life, vain hope to move that heart 
Or change the measure of his punishment ! 



POEMS. 

Thrusting him coldly back the king thus speaks, 

" Pray if of prayer you've need, thy life stream ebbs, 

Ere many moments pass thou goest to death ! 

Justice were it if I thy body left, 

To be the food of vultures, and to fill 

Yon holy cloister with its loathsomeness. 

Waiting the tardy alms of passers by. 

But I am moved to pity, die in peace. 

Thou shalt have pomp and funeral dirge for, ere 

The vesper ring, thy holy order of San Dominique 

Receives in gold six hundred reals ! " 

A shudder runs through all the throng. The king 
With dark looks hastens on the awful deed. 
The prior is bound, the yawning gulf is there. 
One murmur and a groan, the earth clods fall 
Entombed in blackest midnight lies the prior ! 

The king moves on. 
The trembling courtiers follow ; some more bold 
Pause at the grave, and speak these parting words, 
" So is your knavery punished, wicked monk ! 
Just is our mighty king to show the world 
The wretched fate deserved by those, whose greed 
Would barter for their selfish gain of gold. 
The charity and pity of high Heaven ! " 



POEMS. 83 

CHANSON. 

ALFRED DE MUSSET. 

When the coquette, Hope, fair, frail and fleeting 

Gently touches us in passing by, 
Smiling while our own, her eyes are meeting 

Winning all the heart with witchery ; 

" Whither wilt thou go ? " the heart imploreth. 
Thrilling with the visions that have come ; 

Like the swallow that thro' ether soareth. 

By the fragrant south wind lured from home — 

Hither, thither, fickle Hope to follow 
Like the swallow led from quiet range. 

So borne onward e'en he knows not whither, 
Flies the heart of man from change to change ! 

Hope enchantress ! Dost thou know the way ? 

Or do thy wandering footsteps seek to flee 
The arms of Fate who waiteth stern and gray, 

Who at the last shall surely capture thee ! 



84 POEMS. 



HUNGARIAN SONG. 

Thou art the tree and I the vine, 
Thou standest firm not needing me ; 
But I, oh, darling, shrink and pine 
Prone to the earth unheld by thee ! 

If o'er thy Hfe I dare to twine, 
With clinging arms to clasp ihee try, 
Thou yet must hold and call me thine, 
Thou art the tree, the vine am I. 



THE DEVIL IN SALAMANCA. 

There is a legend, which is very old. 

And many Christians good, believe thereon : 
The Devil, even when he is most bold, 

Is void of human cunning, and the one 
Who quick and self-possessed can be. 
From all his deviltry remaineth free ! 
All ye who doubt, just listen to this verse. 
Which, par example, I will here rehearse. 
Long years ago, in Salamanca, taught. 

Like other Doctors, his most learned self, the Devil ; 
He had his books with magic art deep fraught. 

And all the dazzling imagery of evil. 



POEMS. 85 

The scholars flocked In cellar, and in hall, 

By hundreds filled the benches ; on the table, 

Even, they perched ; no places for them all 
Found he : the wise Doctor's knowledge 
Pleased them so well, they sought no other college. 

And he taught so well, and pleased them so. 

They all did mourn when school was ended ; 
Felt very sad that they had to go ! 

To pay their bills, to the desk they wended. 
'* Perhaps you may find my charges dear. 

Still, you know, my system is very rare ; 
I ask for one soul from all that's here ; 

You can cast for lots, I'm sure that's fair," 
Said their classical Professor. 

They murmured, but murmuring wouldn't do ; 

They were forced to draw for the dreaded fate ; 
They felt it then, how the words were true — 
His charges were at a heavy rate ! 
The lot of the lowest number fell 
On a young count, cunning and witty, 
Who shrugged his shoulders, and thought — "A pity 

My splendid talents be cast in ! 

Still his Honor's claws have not me yet. 
And I'll not my human craft forget, 
I'll not bid farewell to my mother earth. 
Or yield my soul and my right of birth 
To this wicked old transgressor ! " 



86 POEMS. 

But the Devil stood in the cellar door. 

Let one after one pass on before, 

Until the count came on, the last ! 

With his claws he caught him, " Ho, not so fast. 

No present claim on my soul have you. 
That fortunate lot was drawn by the one 
Who Cometh behind ; let me pass on ! " 
The clutch was loosed, for the sun's rays threw 
A blinding light o'er the Devil's view. 
And he grasped, in anger, the shadow on ! 
While the laughing count his freedom won. 
And stood with his friends on the sunlit ground. 

Now the thing most wonderful to tell. 
His friends with exclamations found. 

As the glaring sunlight on him fell. 
They wondered all and marveled sore. 
For the count cast never a shadow more ! 



POEMS. 87 

A MORAL TALE. 



FRENCH OF ARNAL. 



One day, when passing down the street, 
A little child I chanced to meet. 
With tearful eyes and looks of woe ; 
'' My little friend why weep you so ? " 
I asked, and drew her near to me. 
" I've lost my money, Sir," said she, 
And it I never more shall find, 
'Twas given me by my mother kind, 
A ten-sous piece, so bright and new ; 
I can't but cry, what shall I do ? " 

" Cease weeping, little one, see, here 

Is one that's just as good and clear ; 

So wipe your eyes, and with these sous 

Buy sweets, or what your heart may choose." 

A smile like sunlight crossed her face. 

Yet still beneath it I could trace 

A look of sadness, so said I, 

" What ails you now, would you still cry ? 

What further trouble do you hide ? " 

" But, Monsieur," low the child replied, 

" See, this is why I feel so sad, 

If I those other sous but had — 

That I have lost, why then, you see 

How glad with twenty sous I'd be ! " 



88 POEMS. 

A LETTER. 



FROM THE FRENCH. 



My lady ; most gently you say 

That Time alters all in his range ; 

But alas, do you know with each day 

You have changed with a still greater change ? 

Poor Time then you ought not to blame, 
For this night is as fair in this year 
As the last, and the stars just the same, 
The moon's crescent shining as clear! 

The roses aglow in their bloom 
Blush yet from the love-words they heard, 
That you whispered to me in the gloom 
Of the branches, the night zephyrs stirred. 

I reproach not ! I would, 'though to-night, 
When you speak of Time's changes that move 
O'er the world in their havoc and might, 
Consider a woman in love ; 

With the seasons she changes, and takes 
A new love, with the year that is new ; 
And he she thus lightly forsakes. 
Is the fool but of Time, so say you ! 



POEMS. 

'Tis summer, the gentle winds blow, 
'Tis summer in life, too, with you ; 
Perchance with the winter and snow, 
Your lovers and friends may be few. 

And you may then, standing apart 
In your solitude, ask as a boon. 
The comfort and love of a heart. 
That you lost in a far-away June ! 



INDEX 



General Jacqueminot, 

The CumberJand, 

Providence, 

Little Peasant, , 

The Song of Coeur de Lion, 

Winged Sorrow, 

Saint Agnes' Eve, . 

France 1871, 

Fatalism, 

Regrets, 

Undine, 

After the Masquerade, 

To Bayard Taylor, 

The Battle of Bennington, 

A Christmas Legend, 
Christmas, 
Easter Song, 
Easter Hymn, 
Dedication Hymn, 

William Cassidy, 
Arch-bishop Hughes, 
Judge R. W. Peckham, 



7 

9 
1 1 

12 

H 
16 

17 

»9 

20 
21 

23 
26 
29 
30 

36 
38 

39 

40 

41 

43 
44 

45 



92 



INDEX. 




The Minstrel's Curse, . 


47 


A Love Song, .... 


. 50 


A May Wine Vision, . 


52 


A Human Heart, .... 


• 55 


Otto III, 


57 


The Ring, 


. 60 


Any How, ..... 


62 


Frederick Barbarossa, 


. . 63 


The Ring, 


. 65 


The Castle under the Sea, 


. 66 


Appreciation, . . . . . 


. 69 


Adoration, ..... 


. 70 


Hans Heiling's Felsen, . 


70 


The Lorelei, ..... 


• 73 


Reflections, .... 


75 


From the Diary of Emperor Maximilian, 


• . 76 


Christmas Eve, .... 


78 


After, 


. . 78 


The Justice of Peter of Arragon, 


79 


Chanson, ..... 


. . .83 


Hungarian Song, .... 


84 


The Devil in Salamanca, . 


. . 84 


Moral Tale, 


86 


xA Letter, ..... 


. 87 






(booksellers 1 



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